


Marked from Birth

by Headfulloffantasies



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angels, Canon-Typical Violence, Dean Winchester Bears the Mark of Cain, Dean has always had the Mark of Cain, Dean is sixteen, Demons, Kidfic-sort of, Mark of Cain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 15:15:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28797456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Headfulloffantasies/pseuds/Headfulloffantasies
Summary: Dean Winchester has always had the Mark of Cain. He struggled with it his whole life, but now it's time to find the demon that cursed him and end this. For @NinaFerraro
Comments: 10
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NinaFerraro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NinaFerraro/gifts).



Dean sat in the school counsellor’s office. His toe tapped in time with the clock on the wall. The afternoon sunlight glinted off the counsellor’s purple cat eyed glasses. The name plate on her desk said “Mrs. Wright.”

“Dean,” Mrs. Wright said softly. She always spoke softly. “You have to understand this is a very serious situation. You’re sixteen; fighting can’t just be waved aside as horseplay gone wrong. You broke that boy’s nose.”

The crunch of cartilage under Dean’s fist had given him a burst of satisfaction. It calmed the rattling hum under Dean’s skin. 

“The principal is considering expulsion,” Mrs. Wright went on. 

Dean shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I won’t be around much longer.”

Mrs. Wright frowned. “Yes. You move quite a lot. Do you think maybe part of your anger stems from the frustration of not being in one place long enough to make sustainable friendships?”

Low hanging fruit, Dean thought. And completely off target. He had anger issues because Dean Winchester was cursed. The raised brand on his arm had quit burning after the fight. But the pain would come back. It always did.

A knock tapped at the door. The secretary stuck her head in the room. “Mr. Winchester is here.”

Dean’s stomach dropped. He stood quickly. He muttered an apology to Mrs. Wright and hurried out of the office. He didn’t miss the way her eyes followed him like a hawk. Dean needed out of this town. The sooner the better. It shouldn’t be long if John was back to pick up Dean.

Dean’s spine straightened of its own accord the second he caught sight of his old man. John leaned on the front desk; his worn leather jacket covered in dust from the road. He had more stubble than last time Dean saw him. 

Dean and John did not exchange words. John jerked his head towards the door. Dean followed him out of the school and into the Impala. 

Dean sighed as he sank into the passenger’s seat. The smell of old leather, whiskey, and gun oil saturated the car. It smelled like home. 

John turned the keys in the ignition. They drove all the way to the highway before John spoke. 

“This is my fault.”

Dean looked at him sharply. John always started like this. Just once, Dean wanted to let John take the blame. But that wasn’t how this script went.

“No, it isn’t,” Dean said. “I threw the first punch.”

“You wouldn’t have all this anger if I could have been there for your mother,” John said right on cue. 

“I’m the one who has to learn how to live with this,” Dean touched the Mark on his arm.  
John sighed. 

Dean waited for the next prompt. John would suggest they leave town. He found work somewhere else. They could have a fresh start.

John stayed silent. The endless blacktop of the highway stretched to the horizon. Dean fidgeted. 

“I want you and Sam to stay with Bobby for a while,” John said.

Dean’s heart jumped. “What?” He blurted out. “Why?”

“Because it’s time you learned a lesson or two,” John said.

Dean swallowed hard. 

“I have a job a few towns over,” John said. “Bobby’ll look after you.”

“I can look after us,” Dean argued.

“Do as I say,” John instructed. 

Dean slumped in his seat. “Yessir.”

They collected Sam and emptied their hotel room in record time. Sam didn’t argue like he usually did when they packed up. That alone sent sparks of anxiety up and down Dean’s spine. He felt like Sam and John were conspiring about him. They had some plan. They were finally tired of him. Dean had to do something about it. If he didn’t act, they’d hurt him. Hurt them first. Hurt them. Hurt.

Dean clenched his fists and closed his eyes. It was too soon. He’d just fed the beast. He couldn’t have these destructive thoughts already. Not so soon after breaking some poor sap’s nose.

The Impala pulled up at Bobby’s driveway. John didn’t get out of the car. Bobby loved Sam and Dean like sons, but he would not tolerate John Winchester in his house. 

Dean grabbed his bag from the trunk and tossed it over his shoulder. 

John waved from the car and drove off. 

Sam grinned at Dean. “So, what’s you do this time?”

“Shut up,” Dean growled. The hot curl of violence under his skin burned. 

Sam’s smile wavered. “Hey,” he touched Dean’s sleeve. “You’re good, okay? We’re good.”

Dean took a deep breath through his nose. He nodded. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Dean and Sam trekked up Bobby’s front steps. Dean lifted his fist to knock. The door opened before he touched wood.

“Boys,” Bobby greeted them. Dean’s chest lightened. The only person who could calm Dean like Sam was Bobby in his worn ballcap and grey beard.

Bobby clapped them both on the shoulder. “Sam, you’re growing like a weed. You eating enough?”

Dean smirked. In the last year Sam had shot over Dean, much to his chagrin. 

“I’m great, Bobby,” Sam leaned in for a hug. 

Bobby turned to Dean. His face became solemn. Somehow Bobby could always gauge Dean’s condition. “You’re in a bad way, boy.”

Dean swallowed. “Yeah.”

Bobby nodded. “That’s why your useless daddy dropped you here. It’s time for us to get ahead of this thing.”

Dean startled. “What?”

Bobby led Sam and Dean into the living room. Dean dropped onto the couch beside Sam. Bobby paced the worn carpet. 

“We have a lead on your curse,” Bobby started.

Dean leaned forward, a million questions on his tongue.

Bobby held out a hand. “Just let me say this. You know the Mark of Cain was given to you as a child on the day your mother was killed.”

Dean and Sam nodded. The pain lanced like a knife through Dean every time.

“Well,” Bobby continued. “John and I ain’t ever seen eye to eye on anything. But he’s agreed to one thing. It’s time you both learned how to fight.”

Dean blinked. “I can fight. I’m on the wrestling team-.”

“Not that kind of fighting,” Bobby said. “You’re both old enough now to fight beside your dad and me. To fight monsters.”

Sam bounced in his seat. “Like rugarous, and werewolves? And vampires?”

“And demons,” Bobby nodded. “If we’re going to break Dean’s curse, you’ll have to battle demons.”

The hungry fire in Dean’s core roared. It ached to spill blood, any blood. The blood of demons would sate the hunger.

“Yes,” Dean said. “When do we start?”

Bobby eyed him with the caution Dean learned meant he’d been too eager. He’d unsettled Bobby. Dean forced himself to sit back and take a breath. 

“The thing that gave you that,” Bobby pointed to the red Mark on Dean’s arm. “Was a demon. John finally found a name. We’re going to find it and kill it.”

“What name?” Dean asked.

“Castiel.”


	2. Chapter 2

When Dean was ten and Sam was six, social services picked them up. Dean blamed himself for coming and going to the hotel room too frequently. He should have stayed inside and left the curtains closed. But the angry bees under his skin had buzzed all the way to his head and drove him to walk up and down the streets. 

Social services dropped Sam and Dean into a group home. They got lucky. They both stayed at the same house. Only two other boys stayed in the house with a whole bunch of empty bedrooms. Dean had his own room for the first time in his life. He hated it. As soon as the lights went out, the door would creak open and Sam crept into Dean’s room. He scrambled up into Dean’s too big bed. They slept back to back, watching out for each other. 

They only stayed in that house four days. That’s all it took for Dean to snap. The buzzing had become a stinging in Dean’s veins. He sniped at Sam. He sat at meals in seething silence. 

Ten years old. Dean was ten years old the first time he broke someone’s arm. Thomas, one of the other boys, came into Dean’s room without asking. Dean had his picture of John and Mary in his hands. 

Thomas laughed. “You crying over your folks?” He snatched the photo from Dean’s grasp. 

Dean’s vision narrowed to Thomas’ fingers smudging over Mary’s image. Dean saw red. He didn’t recall anything but the satisfied purr of the hunger under his skin calming into a slumber. 

Thomas’ screams didn’t register. Dean picked up the fallen photo and put it under his pillow. 

The adults in the house locked Dean in his room. Sam couldn’t get in, despite Dean’s whispered instructions about picking locks. Dean would have ended up in a juvenile facility if John hadn’t come by that night. Dean still didn’t know what John said to convince the social service people to let him in the house. But in ten minutes John had Sam and Dean in the back of the Impala and the house in the rear-view mirror.

Now, at age sixteen, Dean felt the same bees buzzing under his skin. He itched. He ached. He didn’t know what to do. 

“Take this,” Bobby dropped a shotgun on the kitchen table. Dean jumped.

“What do you want me to do with that?” He asked.

“Go out back,” Bobby instructed. “And shoot some of those pesky gophers. They’re ruining my lawn.”

Dean kept his hands on his knees. “Do you think it’s smart to give me a gun right now?”

Bobby snorted. “You ain’t ever hurt me or Sam before. Why’s today different?”

Dean couldn’t say that the curse was working faster. It felt like it was burning his brain. All Dean’s dreams at night were painted with blood. Dean dug his fingernails into his palms.

“Besides,” Bobby continued. “Hair of the dog and all that. Go kill something and see if that helps a bit.”

Dean grabbed the gun and trucked out back. Singer Salvage had become a dustbowl in the summer heat. The sun glinted off the towering piles of wrecked cars and junk. Dean hefted the shotgun and stalked between the rows of metal. A bead of sweat trickled down his neck. 

Dean found the gophers. Their heads popped up out of their holes just like an arcade game. Dean sighted and pulled the trigger. One down. His chest hummed with the recoil and the hated satisfaction of hurting something. Dean shot again. 

Dean didn’t notice the sun vanishing until a set of footsteps interrupted his rhythm. Dean swung the gun around. 

Sam lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Dinner’s ready, mighty hunter.”

Dean’s blood sang. Sam stood at the end of the shotgun. Dean’s finger twitched on the trigger. One little squeeze, his brain begged. Come on. A spray of blood. So much better than gophers. It will be glorious. 

Dean dropped the gun.

Sam frowned. 

Dean’s breaths heaved in his chest. He clutched at his hair.

“Hey,” Sam’s hands smoothed over Dean’s shoulders.

“Don’t touch me,” Dean shoved Sam’s hands away. 

Sam waited. Dean clenched his eyes shut. The image of his brother on the ground with a stomach full of lead threatened to bring up Dean’s lunch. The sickness inside him wanted it. Dean struggled with the impulse. He wrestled it down and slammed the lid on the box he tried so hard to keep closed. 

“Would it make you feel better if you hit me?” Sam broke through Dean’s haze.

“What?” Dean gasped. He looked up at Sam.

Sam shrugged. “You could take a swing if it’ll help.”

Dean’s stomach turned. “Don’t ever say that again,” he growled. “I would never hurt you, Sammy. Never.”

“But if you had to-.”

“No,” Dean cut him off. “I won’t. I swear, I won’t ever do that to you. Don’t say that again.”

Sam’s eyes turned sad. “Okay.”

Dean straightened. He took a deep breath. It smelled like dead gopher and spent shotgun shells. “What did Bobby make for supper?”

Bobby had apple pie for dessert. Dean couldn’t sit still long enough to try it. He went back outside after shovelling down a plate of macaroni and hot dogs. He couldn’t stay in the house. It felt too claustrophobic with both Sam and Bobby inside. Dean’s gut kept rolling with the guilt of what almost happened with Sam.  
Dean should call John. Tell him this wasn’t working out. Dean could keep it together with John. Dean didn’t have to think around John. He followed orders. John said shoot. John said eat. John said sleep. Dean could do that. 

Dean sat down on the front steps. He had his cellphone in his hands. John’s number was pulled up on the screen. 

The door opened. Bobby’s heavy boots stomped over and sat down. 

“So, are you going to help with this curse breaking, or you just going to mope?”

“What?” Dean looked over at Bobby.

Bobby grumbled. “Sam’s been digging into the lore all day. Your daddy’s tracking down this demon Castiel. Hell, I’m up to my elbows in magic voodoo. But you’re sitting here like the dog who got kicked.”

“Bobby,” Dean started to explain.

“Either you help, or I’ll send you to fix the sewage pump,” Bobby said.

Dean turned the phone round and round in his hands. “I can’t stand being inside,” Dean confessed.

Bobby nodded. “Alright. I’ll bring the books outside.”

Dean groaned. “You know I hate reading.”

“I know your mind is going in circles like a dog chasing his tail.” Bobby got to his feet. “Besides, you might learn a thing or two.”

Bobby went back in the house. Dean grumbled under his breath for the show of it. Really, gratefulness buoyed his spirits. Dean couldn’t abide Sam thinking him a useless lump if Dean didn’t help the search for the demon. Besides, Bobby was right. Maybe Dean might learn something. Like how to kill this Castiel bastard.

Bobby brought out a stack of books that thumped on the step beside Dean. 

“What the hell are all these?” Dean dusted off the cover of the top book. The title read Demonology Encyclopedia.

“Look for mentions of Castiel,” Bobby instructed. “I can’t find the slimeball anywhere in my usual lore books.”

Dean cracked the spine of the book. Thin parchment curled under his fingers. “This will take me ages,” Dean complained.

“Good,” Bobby grunted. “Come inside when you’re finished.”

If Dean didn’t come in until he was done, he’d never go back in the house. Dean started flipping. He quickly bored with the Encyclopedia. He tossed it aside and rifled through the rest of the books Bobby had brought out. At the bottom of the stack Dean found Exorcisms and Strategies for Dealing with Demons. He started reading. Dean found himself immersed. The book outlined a dozen ways to kill a demon, to remove the evil spirit from a host, and best of all, to trap a hellspawn. 

Dean only looked up when the sun took its light beyond the horizon and Dean could no longer make out the words on the page. 

He tucked the book under his arm and went into the house. He tossed the book on the side table by the door. “Hey Bobby!” Dean called. “Is there any pie left?”

***

Dean woke in the middle of the night. The Mark on his arm ached like the skin had split along the red ridges. Dean sat up panting and clutching his arm. Sweat poured down his face. He needed help. He needed to satisfy the violent urges.

Dean stumbled out of bed. He had half an idea about going outside and trying to find an animal. Then Sam rolled over in his sleep.

Dean froze. Sam’s bed on the other side of the room was too close. Sam breathed out a sleepy snore. It would be so easy, Dean’s mind whispered. He’s right there. It will be over so quickly. The pain will go away. Dean could feel Sam’s throat under his hands from across the room. Just a quick squeeze. Sam wouldn’t even wake up. 

Dean dove across the room. The doorknob under his hands felt shockingly cold against his fevered skin. 

Dean threw himself down the stairs. He crashed his back against the hall wall and just breathed. The air felt too hot in the house. Dean needed out. He stumbled for the door. Dean ran into the small table beside the door. The demonology book hit the floor. Dean reached down and picked it up. He grabbed his boots and bolted from the house. 

The night air cooled Dean’s flushed skin. He breathed in the dark night. Stars pricked the blackness overhead. Dean closed his eyes.

He couldn’t do this. He was going to hurt someone. John should have put a bullet in Dean’s head before his condition got this bad. 

Dean didn’t know what he would do, but he couldn’t go back into the house. Dean started walking. The towers of twisted metal in the Singer Salvage yard made shadows like monsters. Dean wasn’t afraid. Dean was the worst monster prowling around tonight.

Moonlight refracted off a mirror. Dean looked up. One of Bobby’s junkers sat waiting on the drive. The pickup truck’s blue paint was chipped, but it looked like it would run. Dean opened the door with his mind on autopilot. He slid across the bench seat torn in places with stuffing poking out. Dean found the truck’s keys in the glovebox. It felt like fate. 

The truck started with a roar. Dean tore out of Singer Salvage and hit the highway. 

Dean didn’t have a plan. But he had a name. Castiel. He had a demonology book heavier than a cinderblock on the front seat. He could summon the demon. Castiel would tell Dean how to break the curse of Cain. And then Dean would kill Castiel.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for canon-typical violence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every chapter is going to have a flashback scene at the beginning. The current story line picks up from the asterisks (***)

Dean remembered his first monster. John never hid the things that went bump in the night from Sam and Dean. 

“See this?” John crouched on the gravel beside the Impala in front of Dean. He folded Dean’s seven-year-old hand into a fist. “This is all the power you have in you. Now look at my hands.”

John held up his own fist. It was twice the size of Dean’s with bruised knuckles. “A normal man could kill you easy. But monsters have powers, Dean. They’re stronger, faster, meaner than even me.”

“Then how do you kill them?” Dean asked.

John smiled. “I have to be smarter. I use the right tools.” John opened the trunk of the Impala and lifted the panel hiding the secret compartment. Dean drank in the sight of the weapons and talismans filling the trunk. 

John’s hand fell on Dean’s shoulder. “When you’re bigger I’ll teach you. For now,” John reached over and pulled out a pistol with a silver handle. “This is for you.”

Dean accepted the gun with his mouth wide open. 

John’s grip on Dean’s shoulder tightened. “This is a weapon, not a toy. You never point that at anything but a monster, got it?”

Dean nodded solemnly. “Got it.”

“And you never, ever, let Sammy touch it.”

John left Sam and Dean in their hotel room for the night. “I’ll be back by morning,” John promised.

Dean’s head buzzed with the Mark’s influence. He stayed awake that night, turning the pistol over and over in his hands. His father trusted him with a killing machine. Dean couldn’t shake that from his head. John knew what lived under Dean’s skin, in the curse on his arm. But John trusted Dean. 

Something creaked outside the motel room door. Dean froze. He looked up at the curtained window. A shadow passed towards the door. The shape was too tall and lean to be John. Dean slipped off the bed. The door was locked. Something jiggled the doorknob. The door was locked. There was a click as the lock broke. The door swung open. 

A shadow made flesh stepped across the salt line into the room.

Dean didn’t think. He lifted the gun and pulled the trigger. The recoil off the shot sent Dean sprawling. The monster shrieked. It leapt out of the room and vanished into the night.

Sam jerked awake. “What’s going on?”

Dean fumbled the smoking hot gun. He shoved it under the bed before Sam could see. “Nothing. We’re fine.”

Dean slammed the door shut. He couldn’t do anything about the lock. 

***

Dean studied the book of demonology he stole from Bobby until his eyes swam. The cheap motel reeked of even cheaper booze. After driving the whole night and much of the next morning, Dean had pulled into the first motel he could find. The only things he had were his wallet and the demonology book. No extra clothes, no phone, no way for Sam or Bobby to find him. It didn’t matter. They’d catch up to him eventually. Dean just had to keep moving.

After four hours of sleep, Dean had pulled the demonology book into his lap and started reading. 

It all seemed so straightforward. Summon a demon, exorcise it. Done deal. Dean supposed the hard part was catching the right demon. The book said most demons hid their true names to make it harder to summon them. Well, Dean had a name. All he needed were some supplies.

The Mark burned with the anticipation of killing something. It drove Dean to pace circles around the hotel room while he waited for night to fall. He really didn’t want to get caught by the maid drawing circles on the bathroom linoleum with lamb’s blood. Dean arranged his pentagram and his candles. He had a circle of salt surrounding the pentagram and another circle a few feet back for himself to stand in. It put his back right up against the bathroom door, but at least he had an exit should anything go wrong.

In the flickering light of the candles, Dean recited the chant from the book. The Latin tingled up the ridges of his spine. A gasp of wind sucked all the air from the summoning circle. The candles guttered out. Dean shouted the demon’s name. “Castiel!”

A flash blinded Dean. He threw his hands over his eyes. When he blinked, he saw a figure through the sparks of afterimage. A man stood in the summoning circle. His tall frame stood with his back to Dean. Without the light of the candles, Dean could only make out a long coat and messy dark hair. 

The man turned.

Dean had expected black, soulless eyes, fangs dripping with fresh blood, a snarl twisted inhumanly on a cruel face. Castiel looked completely normal. He regarded Dean with a solemn expression. 

“Castiel,” Dean swallowed hard. “You’re going to help me, or I’m going to send you back to the pit of hell you crawled out of.”

Castiel said nothing. 

Dean scowled to cover how unnerved Castiel made him. “Tell me how to break the curse of the Mark of Cain.”

Still, Castiel remained silent.

“Fine, have it your way,” Dean growled. He flipped the page of the demonology book open on the bathroom sink. The exorcism was printed in huge dark letters easy to read even in the dim light. 

“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis-.”

Castiel stepped over the salt line. 

Dean’s lungs shriveled in his chest. “You can’t do that,” he gasped.

Castiel’s head tipped to one side. Those blue eyes burned into Dean’s skull. “I am not a demon.”

Castiel’s voice sounded like gravel under the Impala’s tires. 

“But the ritual-,” Dean stuttered.

“I did not come because of your summoning,” Castiel said.

“Then why?” Dean demanded.

Castiel pierced Dean with eyes so blue they seemed to glow. “I came because you called.”

Dean’s tongue felt too thick for his mouth. “What are you?”

“I am an angel of the Lord.”

Dean knew his mouth hung open, but his muscles froze in place.

“An angel?” Dean stammered.

Castiel nodded. He surveyed the motel bathroom with an intensity Dean could only describe as predatory. Castiel touched the pages of the demonology book, his fingers running over the script. 

“You asked for my help,” Castiel lifted his gaze to Dean.

“Yes,” Dean pulled up his sleeve. “I’m cursed.”

Castiel subjected the Mark to the same intense scrutiny. Dean thought he might touch the raised skin on Dean’s arm. Instead, Castiel looked away. 

“I know this curse,” Castiel admitted.

“Can you get rid of it?” 

“No.”

Dean sagged.

“But,” Cas tipped his head. “I can take you to meet Cain. He alone knows the intricacies of the curse.”

The hair on the back of Dean’s neck raised. The awe and fear that had clouded his thinking cleared. Every moment of Dean’s life, he’d been warned of supernatural beings. They had ways of tricking humans, disguising themselves, offering deals and wishes only to stab a human in the back. Dean needed to tread carefully.

“Why should I trust you?” Dean asked.

Castiel raised his face. “Have faith. I am here to help.”

“Says you,” Dean countered. “But I haven’t heard of angels taking a real interest in us humans since the Biblical times.”

Castiel’s lips quirked upwards. It wasn’t a smile; it was too deprecating for that. “You want a demonstration,” he said.

“Call it insurance,” Dean said.

Castiel closed his eyes and lowered his head. A low rumble shuddered through the room. Dean’s knees trembled.

Castiel lifted his head. 

Wings sprouted from Castiel’s shoulders. Dark as night, the inky feathers stretched up over his head and spread from one wall of the bathroom to the other. 

Dean sucked in a breath of amazement. His fingers itched to touch. He clenched his hands at his sides.

Castiel tucked the wings in close to his body. Dean couldn’t stop staring.

“Is that enough for you, Dean?” Castiel asked. 

Dean swallowed. “It’s a start.”

He shook himself to return to the task at hand. “So you say we have to find Cain? As in Cain and Able?”

“Yes,” Castiel nodded. “But first we have to deal with the demon at your door.”

“What?” Dean whirled around. He yanked the bathroom door open and strode to the motel window. He twitched aside the curtains. His stolen truck sat alone in the parking lot. The single streetlight illuminating the asphalt cast long shadows up and down the motel.

“I don’t see anything.” Dean let the curtains drop.

“You won’t. Not until it’s too late.” Castiel rolled his shoulders. His wings fluttered. “Do you have a weapon?”

Dean’s stomach sank. “No.”

Castiel’s expression flattened. “Fine. Take this.”

A silver blade the length of Dean’s forearm materialised in Castiel’s hand. The metal was cold in Dean’s grip. The Mark purred in delight at having a weapon to do harm.

“Will this work?” Dean asked.

“It is an angel blade,” Castiel said as though that answered all questions. “It can kill anything.”

Dean and Castiel positioned themselves on either side of the door. Dean widened his stance and gripped the blade tighter. 

The door blew off its hinges without warning. Dean ducked the flying debris. 

A man in a tattered plaid shirt walked through the detritus. Dean took his chance. He stabbed at the demon. The demon moved lightning fast. He caught Dean’s arm and hurled him right into Castiel. They went tumbling to the ground together. The angel blade skittered from Dean’s hand and spun away across the floor. 

“Dean Winchester has an angel,” the demons snarled. “That changes things.”

Dean saw the flash of a knife the second before it came at his face. 

“Dean!” Castiel threw himself between Dean and the knife. Castiel grunted as the knife tore through his back. Castiel shoved Dean away. The demon attacked, the knife sinking into Castiel’s wings. 

Dean gasped in horror. Castiel’s face folded in pain. 

Dean dove for the angel blade. The demon saw him and intercepted. His boot connected solidly with Dean’s ribs. Dean fell to his knees. 

“You’re going to die today, Dean Winchester,” the demon hissed. “No daddy to save you now.”

Dean struggled to his feet. The demon grabbed a handful of Castiel’s hair and placed his blade at Castiel’s neck. 

“I’m going to kill your angel first,” the demon taunted. “Then I’ll deal with you, you little maggot.”

Dean found his voice. “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis-.”

An invisible force closed around Dean’s throat. He gagged and struggled to breath. 

The demon snarled. “You’re going to exorcise me? Me?” It dropped Castiel. The angel crumpled like a ball of wet newspaper. 

Dean couldn’t breathe. The demon prowled closer. Dean clawed at the grip on his neck, but there was nothing to fight against. Spots filled his vision. The Mark howled. Dean couldn’t hold on much longer.

“I’m going to watch the life drain out of your eyes, boy,” the demon snarled.

“No, you’re not.” Castiel’s gravelly voice came from over the demon’s shoulder. Dean watched through the haze of pain as the angel blade sprouted through the demon’s ribs. It looked down with confusion on its face and touched the blood. A flash of light engulfed the demon as it screamed. The demon fell dead at Dean’s feet. 

The force choking Dean evaporated. Dean sucked in a grateful breath. He leaned back against the wall. “Thanks, Castiel.”

Castiel swayed. Dean scrambled to his side. He gripped Castiel’s arm.

“Are you good?”

“Always,” Castiel mumbled. 

“Let me see,” Dean craned his neck to check the angel’s wounded back. Blood poured from the juncture between wings and shoulder. Dean’s hands fluttered unsure over the wound. He hesitated to touch such delicate looking joints.

“That doesn’t look good,” Dean argued.

“I’m fine,” Castiel said. His eyes rolled back and Castiel went limp in Dean’s grip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come chat with me on Tumblr @headfulloffantasies


	4. Chapter 4

Dean was what John called a scrapper, Bobby called a biter, and the schoolboard called a problem. 

John got summoned into many a principal’s office through the years. He’d sit and listen and say “Yes, that behaviour is unacceptable. We will work on it.” And in two days the Winchesters were gone to another town and a new school who had no idea of the curse Dean carried inside him.

Every first day started the same. John pulled the Impala up to the curb and Sam vaulted himself out of the car. Dean and John watched Sam tear across the playground to go meet his new teacher. Then John leaned an arm against the bench seat to look back at Dean. 

“No problems this time, okay? No fighting.”

Dean nodded. He never had the words to make a false promise. He’d clench his hands and roll down his sleeves to hide the Mark. 

Dean trudged through the schoolyard towards the double doors of the elementary school. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam already chasing the second graders his age around the grass. Dean’s chest ached. How long until Sam started resenting Dean for ripping Sam away from friends he’d only just made? How long until Sam became as jaded as Dean and guarded his heart by not making friends in the first place?

The bell rang. Dean slumped into his desk and opened his notebook. In the back cover he had a chart of tally marks. The longest collection of tally marks stretched from one side of the worn cover to the other. Almost seventy little hatches representing the number of days between the first day in class and the day the Mark forced them to put the school in the Impala’s rear mirror. Dean started a new row. He penned out one line. One day at a new school. Maybe this time it would be different.  
Someone bumped his desk. Dean looked up. A boy gave him a nasty look and stuck out his tongue. Maybe Dean shouldn’t get his hopes up. The boy snatched Dean’s jacket off the back of his chair and tossed it on the floor. Dean set his jaw. Better tell Sam not to get comfortable. 

***

Cas, Dean had started thinking of the angel as Cas, wasn’t as heavy as Dean thought. The dawn started pinking the horizon. Dean made a snap decision. He didn’t plan on getting caught in a hotel room with a dead demon and an unconscious angel. He lifted Cas into his stolen truck. The black feathers of his wings scraped the asphalt. Dean checked Cas’ injury as he buckled the seatbelt around the angel. Blood ran in sluggish rivulets of red. The sight made the Mark itch. 

Dean burned rubber before the maid started her rounds. 

Cas woke just before they crossed into the next town a hundred miles away. He blinked a dazed frown in Dean’s direction.

Dean almost hit the ditch as he swerved to pull over. “Hey, man. You okay?”

“Relative to what?” Cas’ low timbre growled alongside the truck’s engine. He rubbed a hand over his temple. 

“Dude,” Dean said. “You killed a demon.”

“I am aware.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“I know.” The angel glared. “Any other obvious observations you’d like to make?”

‘Hey, I’m just trying to understand what’s going on,” Dean said.

Cas sighed. “I know. Unfortunately, your limited human mind can only grasp so much of the scale which is at stake.”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “You want to explain?”

“No,” Cas reached for the door handle.

“Hey, wait,” Dean scrambled to grab the angel’s arm. “You came to me. You told me you could help. You can’t bail on me now.”

“I am not bailing,” Cas tugged out of Dean’s grasp. “But I think I might be about to vomit.”

“Oh.” Dean released Cas. The angel stumbled out of the truck and went around the back. Dean sat with the engine idling. He glanced in the rear mirror. He didn’t see Castiel. Was it worse to sit and listen to a guy you just met throw up, or should he go see if Cas needed anything?

“Screw it,” Dean unbuckled his seatbelt. He switched off the engine and got out of the truck. The tall grass on the side of the road whistled around his jean cuffs. 

“Cas?” Dean called out. “You need anything? Water? A new shirt? A back rub?”

The angel didn’t answer. 

Dean came around the side of the truck. Cas slumped against the rear tire. Dean yelped. 

“Hey, what happened?”

The angel lifted his head. “Did you call me Cas?”

“Yeah, is that okay?” Dean placed the back of his hand against the angel’s forehead like he did when Sam got sick. “You’re burning up. Are angels supposed to get fevers?”

“No.” Cas didn’t elaborate. 

“You need help,” Dean said.

“The only ones who can help me are other angels,” Cas said.

“Okay, so call one,” Dean snapped.

Cas shook his head. He struggled to stand, leaning heavily against the truck.

The pieces clicked together in Dean’s head. “The man upstairs doesn’t know you’re with me, does He?”

Cas pierced him with one of his unnerving stares. 

Dean threw his hands into the air. “Look, I’m as lost as a millennial in the woods, okay? I’m more clueless than Alicia Silverstone. But you said you’d help with this Mark of Cain. So, I can’t let you die before you deliver, got it?”

“I got it,” Cas said. “You are a selfish, emotional human being just like the rest of them.”

Dean cast his eyes to the sky to pray for patience. “How do we fix you? You got some magic scotch tape for that slice and dice?”

Cas shook his head again. “I will mend on my own, but I cannot return my wings to the astral plane until they are healed.”

Dean’s head short circuited. “You’re going to be walking around looking like an Elton John reject until you’re fixed?”

Cas’ head tipped to the side. “I don’t understand. What does a musician have to do with this?”

“Never mind,” Dean waved a hand. “Can we at least bandage you up?”

Cas hesitated. Finally, he nodded. “Alright.”

“Great,” Dean headed back to the driver’s side of the truck. “I don’t have any supplies. We’re going to have to go into town.”

Cas got gingerly into the passenger’s seat. The angel leaned slightly forward to take the pressure off his wings. 

Dean drove fast. The tiny town of Resurgence greeted them with a sign made illegible by peeling paint. Dean pulled into the only gas station. It had one pump.

Cas started to get out of the truck.

“Hang on,” Dean snagged his sleeve. “You can’t go in there, Big Bird.”

Cas frowned. “Yes, you’re right. I’ll stay here.”

Dean went inside the gas station. He thanked the stars he’d put his wallet in his jeans when he’d taken off from Singer Salvage. 

The gas station attendant gave him a funny look when he piled all the medical supplies they stocked on the counter with a slice of packaged pie and a case of water bottles.

The guy rang him through. He kept looking past Dean’s shoulder out the window towards the truck.

Dean yanked out a handful of bills.

“You’re not Dean Winchester, are you?” The attendant said suddenly. 

Dean stiffened. “No, who’s that?”

The guy fidgeted. “Missing person. The local sheriff’s been asking about a truck like yours.”

“No kidding?” Dean laid his money on the counter and started grabbing his purchases. “Well, I hope they find him.”

“Yeah,” the guy squinted at Dean again.

Dean spun on his heel and did his best not to run to the truck. 

“We got to go.” Dean tossed his stuff in the backseat and cranked the engine. “Somebody tipped off the authorities.”

Cas gave him a weary look. “Did you think your family wouldn’t be worried about you?”

“No, but I didn’t think Bobby would sick the police on me,” Dean groused. 

They drove another hour over open highways through fields of green spring canola until Dean found a little creek where he pulled off the road. The truck handled the mud under the tires like a dream. Dean cut the engine and got out. 

The sound of water always calmed Dean. He stretched his hands over his head. He inhaled the rich scent of wet earth and rain just passed. A tree spread its limbs over the fast-moving creek, giving the water a little shade from the sun’s heat.

Cas climbed out of the truck slowly. 

“Alright, come here,” Dean motioned Cas over. “Let’s play doctor.”

Cas settled himself on the grass under the tree. Dean fetched the supplies and picked through the antibiotic spray and gauze. He sat behind Cas. His magnificent wings tucked close to Cas’ back, the feather ruffled around the oozing wounds.

“You got to take this off,” Dean touched Cas’ trenchcoated shoulder. 

Cas struggled with the material made stiff by dried blood. Dean took pity and helped him ease it off his arms. The black suit jacket came next. Then the white dress shirt.

“Geez, you have more layers than an onion,” Dean joked.

“Not exactly,” Cas winced as Dean pulled the wrong way and aggravated one of the cuts.

“There,” Dean laid aside the shirt. “Done. Now for the fun part.”

Dean started with a disinfectant. He had no idea if angels could get infections, but considering how weak Cas already seemed, Dean wasn’t taking chances. 

“This might sting,” Dean dabbed at the jagged edges of the wounds. Cas breathed evenly through it. Dean set aside the disinfectant and grabbed the bandages.

While he’d cleaned the wings, Dean hadn’t really let himself think about the feel of the feathers in his hands. Now, he couldn’t help but stroke the pinions to get them to lay flat while he wrapped them up. The feathers slid through his fingers like silk. The black reminded him of ink against Cas’ pale skin. 

“You have very gentle hands,” Cas said.

Dean jumped. “Yeah, well, I took care of Sammy most of my life. I guess I learned how to be careful.”

Dean tended another one of the cuts. The ragged edges made his gut burn with anger. That demon had no right to destroy something so perfectly crafted. Dean kept his touches light even as the Mark howled for retribution. The itch under his skin intensified. 

Dean taped the last bandage into place and stood swiftly. He walked down to the water and dunked his bloody hands into the creek. The shock of cold water distracted his buzzing mind. Dean released the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. 

Cas picked his way down the bank to stand beside Dean. 

“We have to move on,” Cas said. “Your family meant well to report you missing, but now every demon on earth knows Dean Winchester is in Kansas. We have to keep ahead of them.”

“Right,” Dean turned back to the truck. “Lead on, holy roller.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one this time. I've been struggling with the plot, but I think I've finally got a direction now.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to NinaFerraro for the prompt. I don't know how many chapters this will be, but it's going to be long


End file.
